Shattering Glass
by Wishi-chan
Summary: AU - Jocelyn may have been his wife, but she was no longer his ally. Valentine changes his plans and never attacks the accords; a short concept piece for a fic based on this that may or may not be written.


Disclaimer: This has no legal power, you know

This is a concept piece; it is very likely that I'll have no time to even plan a story like this, let alone write it. So, yeah, it may not make much sense.

Please, criticise as much as you wish.

Shattering Glass

Jocelyn may have been his wife, but he was sure, now, that she was no longer his ally. The way that she looked at him, something between suspicion and fear in her eyes. How she tried to avoid his company in the evenings, when her parents and child were abed. And finally, Jonathan. In hindsight, the boy had been a mistake, one he was in no way eager to repeat. But still, sometimes...he wondered if she somehow knew. Oh, she suspected, but that was just half formed thoughts, shadows in her mind that could easily be explained away as a product of her long sickness during pregnancy. If she knew, though, if she had proof...

But, in the past few weeks, it had been as though she had shaken herself out of her lethargy. She cared for Jonathon, rather than leaving him to her mother and nurses. She got up, she read, she trained. And he hoped, oh how he hoped, that the angels' blood had done its work. That Jonathon could be trained, made into a sharpened edge instead of a half formed sword. That Jocelyn would never discover he had let Lucien free. That any other child they had would be born whole and human, a child of the Nephilim.

She loved him, though. There was no changing that, he was sure. She'd been his since they were sixteen years old. And that made her his to control.

*

Valentine had planned for this. Planned and planned and planned. He wanted to go to the Hall of Angels, break up the accords, slaughter any creature he found wanting, be they man or beast. She bided her time. She had worried him, made him suspicious. He still told her he loved her, that without her, he would have been nothing. He still treated her as a trusted second in command as he had before. But she wasn't. He hid his plans from her, left her out of important meetings. So, she hid the fear in her eyes, and went back to loving him. She cared for her son, her little...monster. Ignored the screams through the walls, pretended not to miss Lucien so much it hurt.

And it worked. She returned to his side. More importantly, she regained his ear. So when he started to talk about his plans for the accords, she disagreed. Allow them to have their accords, she argued. It will simply show the Clave the truth of your words; when they interact with the downworlders, they will see how barbaric they truly are. How inhuman. The accords will fail, within twenty years, and by that time, you will have amassed enough power, enough followers, and enough justification for your cause that we could take over Idris without having to spill a drop of shadowhunter blood.

And he listened. Oh, thank the Lord he listened. So she bought herself time, a short lived peace. Time to find allies against him, her husband, to gather followers and power and justifications of her own. All from regaining her husband's ear.

*

Imogen Herondale had never been one to cry. Why should she? She was a Shadowhunter, a guardian of the world, descendant of angels. She was important; it was rumoured that soon, she should be named Inquisitor, one of the most powerful positions in Idris. She had her family. Her husband, her beautiful son.

She leaned back in her chair, body stiff and aching as though she was the one who was dead. Oh, if only she was! Her life in exchange for Stephan's, that was a fair trade, was it not? But no angel answered her prayers. What good were they as kin, if they could not grant her this?

Just two days ago, they had come to her and told her about Stephen. He had been hunting some creature, on the order of that Valentine. And he had fallen. When first he had fallen in with that...cult, she hadn't minded. Amatis' brother had joined, and Imogen had liked the girl well enough. Trusted her, even.

Then...the way he had talked about reforming the Clave, ridding the world of downworlders. The light in his eyes had scared her, bright like he had a fever. Valentine had forced him to annul his marriage to Amatis, and he had done it. Willingly even.

Two days ago, they had come to her, Valentine's followers, and told her with blank eyes about Stephen's death. They brought her his body. He had been covered in blood and white, so white, as though he had never seen the sun.

And she was alone.

Suddenly, a sharp knock came on the door. She ignored it. It wasn't hard; nothing much could shake her from the strange half sleeping state Stephen's death and put her in. But then it came again, and again, until she could no longer ignore it. With effort, she pushed herself from her seat. Shuffling to the door, she reflected on how stiff she felt, as though she had aged thirty years in 48 hours.

Opening the door, she prepared herself for artificial tears and consolations on her loss. As though others could ever understand the emptiness, the cold hardness, that had settled somewhere around her middle.

But instead of some crying neighbour, a man stood outside the door. She glared at him, but he stared straight back. She vaguely recognised him; he had know Stephan. He had been one of Valentine's men.

"What are you doing here?" She questioned bitterly, pushing back her instinct to stab something sharp through his neck. "You're one of the Circle, aren't you? Don't you think you have done enough?"

She made to close the door. "Leave me."

But he reached out and caught it before she could bring it too. Shocked at his impertinence, she reached for the blade she kept at her door. But a cry interrupted her before she could bring it to his throat. She hadn't heard a cry like that for many years, since Stephan had been a newborn.

"Is that...is that a baby?!" she gasped. "Why have you brought a baby to my house?"

The man, a dark haired twenty-something with thick eyebrows, looked almost ashamed. "Celine...your daughter in law, she's... she's dead."

She couldn't breathe. Of course there had been the baby. But Celine hadn't been due for another month, and Stephen had wiped it from her mind. Somehow it had seemed unimportant that a part of Stephen had still existed when he had already gone.

"Dead?" Imogen forced herself not to look down at the bundle of cloth. It was shifting slightly, as though the child inside it was slowly awakening.

The messenger nodded.

"And..."Her throat was dry, "And the baby?" She pushed the door wide open. He stretched his arms out. "It's your grandson, madam."

And she took him in her arms.

*

Clarissa Morgenstern was born a little underweight. Valentine did not like the name, he made that perfectly clear, but Jocelyn insisted on it. When her mother first held her, she opened her eyes wide, and they were green. Just like her mother's. While her mother cooed over the new child, Jocelyn cried in relief, trying to forget the dark irises that had haunted her recent dreams.

*

"I won't go!"

Maryse sighed, turning to her precocious six year old daughter. Isabelle stood by her side, her arms crossed and her face in an exaggerated pout. It would have been cute, she thought, if they hadn't been so busy. Alec was calmly packing up his room, but then he had always been a solemn child.

Isabelle, however...She cared for histrionics. Then again, she was basically a miniature version of herself.

"We must go, my darling. Daddy and I have a new job, working at the Institute in New York. We'll live in a beautiful building, though, in one of the greatest cities in the world." She forced excitement into her voice. She didn't want to go, no more than any Shadowhunter wanted to leave Idris. Nothing, after all could compare to it. "Doesn't that sound good, sweetheart?"

Isabelle stamped her foot. That was a no then.

*

It was way too late, he knew that. His mom had told him to be home at 8, at the latest, but he and Eric had gotten a little...carried away with Eric's new games consol. It'd was only when Eric's mother had come in that Simon had realised the time.

And so here he was, trying to get home through New York (on foot) at quarter-past-ten. Shivering, he tried to wrap his coat tighter around his lanky frame. He was a little too tall for it now, but it kept him warm enough. Suddenly, something growled. He froze, listening. What was that? If he didn't know any better, he would have said it was a wolf, or something. But that was dumb. There were no wolves in New York. Not the animal kind at least.

Still, he looked around warily, pushing up his glasses and peering into a nearby alleyway. Nothing seemed to be there, not that he could see. But it was a pretty grim evening, and winter to boot. There were probably a lot of things down that alley he didn't want to see.

He resisted the urge to move any closer. His mom was going to kill him anyway, what as the point of sticking his nose in to strange sounds (that he'd probably imagined anyway) and making himself even later? He started walking away; and the world exploded into ripping snarls and blurs of dark fur.

*

Aline didn't like him. She was probably meant too. After all, he was charming enough. Handsome too, if you liked the fine boned look, as though one punch would break his entire face into china pieces. But Jonathon Morgenstern was prodigy alright, an amazing warrior.

But his face...oh, his face. Like if you looked at him too long, he'd suck out your soul. And after what he'd done to Sebastian, her visiting cousin...she hoped she'd never see a face that close to an angel's again.

*

So yeah, I don't know what this is. It's an AU, something that I may write if I have any time soon. The idea was something based on what might happen if no one had ever told Jocelyn that Lucien was still alive.


End file.
